


won’t look down, won’t open my eyes

by finalizer



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, basically they're both dumb and argue about everything, rooftop selfies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:58:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1766359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, Peter’s definition of a picnic is fundamentally different from Harry’s.</p><p>Or, how Harry lost his fear of heights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	won’t look down, won’t open my eyes

“This is not what I meant, Peter.”

They’re on a rooftop that’s roughly twenty square feet in size and _—_  Harry looks down _—_  pretty fucking high up.“No, no, no, no,” he mutters. There’s a slight edge of panic to his voice. “Peter, get me down. Peter,

“No, no, no, no,” he mutters. There’s a slight edge of panic to his voice. “Peter, get me down. Peter, _please get me down, now_.”

“Hey, listen,” Peter says, grabbing Harry’s shoulders and turning Harry until he’s facing him. “You blew up last time some pap followed us for hours, so I figured anyone would have a tough time finding you up here.”

“Peter, I’m gonna throw up.”

“Yeah, you also said that that time I took you to the pool. Trust me, you’ll be fine if you just keep looking at _me_ , alright?” Peter insists. “You wanna sit by the railing here?”

“I’m not _—_  I’m not sitting near the railing.”

“Okay, then. We’ll sit in the middle right there,” Peter says, guiding Harry over to where he’d apparently already had the time to set up a blanket. Harry figures he must have been in a solid state of shock for a good few minutes if he hadn’t noticed any of that being done before. In his defense, usually, when one is asked out on a lunch date, they probably don’t expect to be whisked out the _window_. And head _upwards_. He trusts Peter way too much for his own good.

“I’m not nearly high enough for this,” Harry mutters. He slowly sits down and looks up at Peter, who’s suddenly glaring at him, wary and venomous. “I’m kidding, Pete.”

“You better be,” Peter’s serious façade cracks and he grins, pulling Harry down on top of him, “because it doesn’t get any higher than this. We’re on top of one of the tallest buildings in New York, buddy.”

 

/

 

“It’s because you’re so pale,” Peter says, when they’ve been up there for hours and Harry’s complaining about the sun attempting to fry him alive.

“I’m not _—_ ”

“If you were any paler, you’d be invisible, Harry.”

“Now that’s just rude. I’m being bullied _—_ ”

Peter puts his hand over Harry’s mouth and yelps when Harry licks it, though he really should have seen that coming.

 

/

 

“It continues to amaze me that you actually sell your own selfies to make a living,” Harry says. He’s on the blanket, lying on his stomach, looking through the pictures on Peter’s camera. There’s a vast collection of Spider-Man snapshots, in varying poses of flight.

Peter hops off the railing he’d been balancing on; showoff extraordinaire _._ “You’re just jealous that you gotta go all out and just hope someone catches you doing something scandalous. Not that it’s hard to catch you doing something scandalous.”

He walks over and lies down beside Harry, snatching the camera from his hands.

“Smile, princess,” he says.

When he takes the first picture, shutter clicking, his eyes widen and he jumps to his feet. “Hold up, I have a much better idea _—_  ”

And then a wildly protesting Harry is being led over to the railing by an overenthusiastic Peter. There’s a variety of ways the venture could end, and Harry isn’t too pleased about any outcome, because he’s nearing the edge of the building and his legs are going wobbly at the knees.

“The skyline is so nice, Harry. Come on, just stand next to me. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Yes, now come here and take a selfie with me.”

When they finally end up taking the picture, Harry’s on the verge of a mental breakdown and Peter can’t seem to stop laughing at the terrified grimace he’s making in the shot. He promises Harry to delete it. He never does. He prints it and keeps it hidden in his wallet.

 

/

 

There’s a cliché picnic basket lying on the cliché checkered picnic blanket and yet neither of them had bothered opening it yet. Harry, because his stomach is doing backflips at the very thought of the hundred foot drop below them. Not that he’s not hungry _—_  he _is_ _—_  but the concept of heights is daunting enough to keep the feeling at bay. Peter, because he’s switching between using the railing as a balance beam, and taking pictures of himself using the railing as a balance beam.

Eventually, the rumbling in Harry’s stomach wins over.

“Peter, darling, are you going to offer me some food or am I supposed to understand the basket’s just a neat hiding spot for your suit?”

“Hey, I promised there’d be no suit today,” Peter says, lifting the lid off the basket. He tosses a grilled cheese sandwich at Harry. “When you eat your sandwich you’ll get apple pie.”

Harry stares at him. “When’d you have time to make a pie?” he asks (because it’s a well known fact that Peter never _buys_ pie, because that would be a disgrace to the American tradition; he just sometimes disappears into the kitchen for hours and comes out with a dessert that would make Gordon Ramsay proud).

“When you were passed out over last month’s stock reports this morning. I can’t believe the smell didn’t wake you up. It even lured your secretary upstairs.”

“I’d been reading through those papers for twenty hours straight, Peter. World War III wouldn’t have woken me up.”

“You woke up when I tickled you.”

“Well, apparently I must have already gotten enough sleep by then,” Harry insists, because if there’s one thing the two of them are good at its arguing over the smallest, stupidest things. Like the time Harry had been internet shopping in the middle of the night and had made the mistake of asking Peter which color scarf to buy. To say the least, they’d ended up Skyping Gwen to consult on the matter.

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Now, give me the pie, Parker.”

Peter just gives him the whole thing. Despite appearances, Harry’s capable of eating an entire pie _—_  it’s been scientifically proven on more than one occasion.

Harry never really admits it to anyone, but he lives for Peter’s cooking because it gives him that feeling of _home_ he’d never really had. He knows it sounds pathetic, even in his mind, but the some of the best moments of his childhood had been the times Peter had brought fresh homemade food over from Aunt May’s.

“Is it that good?”

Harry looks up. “What?”

“You kinda look like you’re about to cry.”

“You’re pretty full of yourself for a guy who wears spandex.”

 

/

 

Peter’s lying on his back with Harry’s head on his chest, carding his fingers through his hair. They’ve been trying to get going for the past thirty minutes, give or take a few, but Harry had claimed the pie weighed him down and he’d refused to get up. And Peter, he just enjoys all the quiet moments he gets.

“Will we do this again?” Harry asks eventually. The sun is setting, the bright orange rays reflecting off nearby buildings and narrowing visibility.

Peter laughs. “What happened to, _ew, we’re gonna die up here?”_

 

/

 

For the record, Harry does finish the pie.


End file.
